


Rightfully yours

by dualce



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, Everybody Lives, Gandalf is not as sneaky as he seems, Idiots in Love, M/M, but he'll take all the credit if you let him, elves are good for something after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:26:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dualce/pseuds/dualce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stop glaring."</p><p>Thorin pinched his lips together, and unpeeled them long enough to murmur, "I'm not." If he bothered to look down and to his right, he would see Balin giving him a long and dubious look under a set of bushy white brows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rightfully yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heyerette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/gifts).



> For the lovely heyerette, who kindly replied to my request for a drabble and ended up with a one-shot instead. *squishes*
> 
> "Post-BoFA, Everyone Lives, Thorin visits Rivendell, Bilbo is there, things happen. Earlier separation due to pride?"
> 
> Note that this has an incredible amount of dialogue (for me), and while I tried to keep it light (apologies for attempted humor?) it veers into some angst (Thorin's fault). But it ends with happy schmoop! (Phew.)

Rivendell was shining.  
  
A late, wet spring made moss bloom along the masonry, and the branches of every tree were tipped in green buds. Even the statues, dark with water, glimmered when pale sunlight hit them. Rafters and columns alternated uniformly across each balcony, much like the stonework in Erebor - but imbued with the elves' airy sensibilities, light and thin, like carved wood instead of stone.  
  
"Stop glaring."  
  
Thorin pinched his lips together, and unpeeled them long enough to murmur, "I'm not." If he bothered to look down and to his right, he would see Balin giving him a long and dubious look under a set of bushy white brows.  
  
"You'll scare the poor lad." Balin sighed. His words were little more than a whisper, but loud enough for Thorin to pick up on.  
  
He knew. He knew, and tried to stop himself - too much hardship had already afflicted them. He huffed impatiently before he could catch himself. Across the courtyard, the wizard looked at him skeptically from beneath the brim of his weather-beaten hat. Thorin met his gaze cooly, but did not - could not, not yet - look any further down. He settled for glaring at the skinny elf next to the Lord of Rivendell.  
  
"His fault, anyways," Dwalin muttered on his left side, and Thorin could have thumped Dwalin on his arm, had he been given to displays of affection.  
  
"He hardly bears all the blame," Balin argued back, and Thorin took a deep breath, glaring harder. The elf looked confused, peeking behind one shoulder, and then checking the other for good measure.  
  
"He does!"  
  
The music faltered at the sound of Dwalin's voice. The old warrior coughed and glared viciously - well, more than usual - and at Elrond's nod the music resumed its ceaseless chiming and ringing. Thorin scratched none-too-subtly at his ear.  
  
"Anyways. He shouldn't have left." Dwalin grunted.  
  
Balin didn't attempt to deny what was very much the truth, but his voice softened into a reasonable tone. "Perhaps he didn't feel welcome. Perhaps he didn't think he was wanted."  
  
"Nonsense." Dwalin caught his bark in time and quieted himself. Barely. "He knew he was -" It sounded like he was grinding stones in his gullet. "Part o' the company."  
  
Thorin had the same bricks on his shoulders. He felt himself slumping downward and forced his spine straighter. How much longer was this damned ceremony? Elves walked on Middle Earth for too damn long. They had no appetite and were content to sup on music and speeches, leaving the rest of them to suffer hunger pangs.  
  
"That's not the same as being family, lad." Balin's whisper threaded through Thorin's ears, like silver beaten thin, a ring tight enough to be a noose.  
  
"Stop." The word came out husky and coarse, but was enough to shut the two of them up. The music did not falter, and the wizard's eyes were piercing across the courtyard. Thorin ostensibly kept his gaze on the horizon, and saw not even a wayward curl of the hobbit.  
  
*  
  
Bilbo had done a mite bit of growing up during the journey across Middle Earth; a few years back in the Shire had finished the job. Yet - _yet_ \- the sight of that particularly obnoxious, stubborn, _infuriating_ dwarf positively inflamed him. His muscles twitched from being held tense too long, and he forced himself to relax.  
  
Thorin had a few more strands of grey in his hair, which quite unfairly only made him _more_ attractive. His chin was raised, and he stood as if he had never taken a injury that nearly did him in. That idiot. Bilbo felt bitterness and hot anger rise in him, and felt like crying. Or screaming. Possibly both. Both. Both was good. Maybe then the dwarf would look at him. It was like he was a ghost, or an embarrassing relative who said the most tone-deaf, uncomfortable things about someone sitting right across the table. Bilbo had a few of those, but he'd never thought _he'd_ be one. At least not for another 30 years or so.  
  
Gandalf made a thoughtful humming sound in his throat. "I do believe I have heard this song before in my youth, or rather when I had just graduated into the grey order -"  
  
"How dare he!" Bilbo interrupted with a hiss, and ducked his head when several elves glanced curiously at him. "Am I invisible?" He checked his ring just to be certain. It was safe in his pocket.  
  
"Bilbo." Gandalf clucked his tongue at this; he didn't like the ring being mentioned so casually (with good reason).  
  
"Well!" Bilbo stopped himself from saying anymore. He wasn't young, and was, admittedly, being a bit ridiculous in public. Even if it was entirely called for, after the way - the _reason_ \- he'd left Erebor. He shook his head, and looked up into the trees that lined the courtyard, watching them sway gently in the breeze and entirely missing the welcome speech Elrond gave to the dwarven envoy. It took until the first course (a light, lemony soup) for Bilbo to calm himself. He turned to Gandalf abruptly, his sitting cushion coming askew. He adjusted it carefully and spoke the same way. " _I_ did nothing wrong." Each word came out stiffly, in Bilbo's articulate and slightly old-fashioned manner. "When a hobbit leaves his home for a bunch of flea-ridden dwarves, to battle a dragon, and _then_ an Orc army, I _really_ don't think it's too much to ask for an apology."  
  
Gandalf made a noise that might have been an agreement, or perhaps he was enjoying his soup. (It was good soup.)  
  
"He didn't even ask me to stay! Just some tripe about good food and cheer before passing out." Bilbo conveniently did not mention that none of them had known - except perhaps Gandalf - that these were not, in fact, Thorin's last words.  
  
"And then he woke up and insulted me." Bilbo glanced again at Thorin, whose expression hadn't changed - still the same constipated glare as when he had first set foot in Rivendell.  
  
Bilbo watched him lean towards Dwalin, and nod slightly at what was being said - probably another crude insult, knowing dwarves - one big hand wrapped around a dainty elven cup.  
  
"Well, it's only the first course," Gandalf said mildly, ignoring Bilbo's frown.  
  
*  
  
"How long is this going this take?"  
  
"It's only the second course," Balin said cheerfully, enjoying Thorin's groaning (and the grilled fish) immensely.  
  
The third course was not much better - but then, Thorin was not in a complimentary mood. The fading sunlight was an annoyance, the chirping of unseen crickets was nettling, the sounds of quiet laughter and merriment a stone tied around his ankle. The presence of the singular person he neither wanted to look upon nor leave his life forever was unbearable.  
  
He might have borne it through the evening if a sound he hadn't heard for years made his head lift and find, unerringly, the one person he was attempting to avoid, at least until he was better prepared. Bilbo had his head ducked down, laughing into his napkin, most of his face hidden. His hair was trimmed, no longer the shaggy mess it had been the last time Thorin had seen him, and his jacket was a washed-out green shade the elves favored.  
  
There were several interpretations of the story of Durin, from when he was lost deep in the earth, wandering in darkness, and sometimes through fire. He went many days without water, and sick with thirst, sang it from the stone, until his voice was but a scratch, his lips cracked and eyes rheumy. They said little else could stop Durin, for his hardiness was greater than the granite that entombed him, but water he needed, like all living things. And when his voice had faded, the earth pitied him, and the water trickled forth, and gave him the strength to continue.  
  
Thorin felt, like his ancestor, that he was stumbling on the last legs of his strength, visions of the past come to keep him company in the form of an hobbit, deceiving in his appearance. His jacket was fine, but did not froth around him like the elves' gowns, and in his oversized chair he seemed slight next to them.  
  
Bilbo glanced at him, and Thorin noted small crinkles around his eyes that had not been before. He looked away.  
  
*  
  
The elves were, for the most part, clever and considerate of an old(er) hobbit like Bilbo, although a few did treat him like a curiosity. He did admire their careful, watchful habits; he could ask a question and they'd dwell on it for days before never really giving him an answer. (They shared that with Gandalf, come to think of it.) And their gifts in song and music was beyond measure. Bilbo had been inspired to write quite a bit in the comfort and solicitude of Rivendell. Up until now he hadn't been regretting Gandalf's (and Elrond's) offer of visiting.  
  
Until he accidentally met Thorin's eyes. Bugger all, he'd been enjoying the sly puns of the elf sitting next to him (not a fan of dwarves, either, another thing Bilbo admired in elves at this particular junction), laughing one minute and looking at the wrong place the next.  
  
He'd not imagined it like this. Bilbo might have wanted shame, or at least embarrassment reflected in Thorin's demeanor, but he'd known perfectly well he'd receive the same bloody-mindedness as usual. (He'd hoped for an apology, even if it only came in the form of a look.) What he'd got was nearly too brief for him to categorize, except that it was none of those things, and he was left befuddled and lost, his anger momentarily forgotten.  
  
*  
  
"The council is only for select members," Gandalf said patiently, looking down at his small and persistent friend.  
  
"So, I'll wait." Bilbo folded his arms and planted his feet. The stubbornness of dwarves was only exceeded by the stubbornness of hobbits. Gandalf smiled to himself. He had not predicted this meeting and knew not the outcome, but sometimes chance was stronger even than a wizard's will. However, it was best to allow circumstances to unfold privately, when it could; especially for these two. Secrets abounded in Bilbo and Thorin, well, would be much too wound up by the elves.  
  
Gandalf heaved a slight sigh. "They are singing in the gardens tonight," he said.  
  
Bilbo opened his mouth to protest.  
  
"There is a lovely spot between the hyacinths and the bleeding hearts."  
  
Bilbo gave him a wry look. Gandalf chuckled. It was rare for him to be outwitted, but Bilbo more than occasionally surprised him.  
  
"I'll stay here, thank you."  
  
Gandalf shrugged one shoulder, and leaned upon his staff as he turned to go, folding one sleeve about himself. He took a few tottering steps and stopped, as if thinking. "There is also a quiet spot by the maples."  
  
"Gandalf." Bilbo's exasperated sigh echoed in the corridor. He was a slight figure in the corridor, but Gandalf knew that only deceived those who weren't truly looking.  
  
"Quite private. Hard to see from the stage. A perfect spot for thinking, or quiet discussions between friends." He smiled as Bilbo frowned, and went on to the council.  
  
*  
  
After an hour in the corridor, Bilbo grew tired of waiting, and he went and sat in the bench between several maple trees, on the farthest ring in the illuminated circle of light. The elves sang in muted and soft tones, of ships and starlight and paths that circled without end. It was all faintly sad, in the way that all elven songs were, and by the time it came to an end Bilbo felt weary, his anger drained away and sputtering like a wick for more oil.  
  
Thorin had not come. Bilbo was not even angry at Gandalf, for attempting to help in his strange, irregular way, but was sick at the thought this would happen all over again, Thorin's foolish pride holding them back from - from possibilities. Several elves stopped to speak to him, and he exchanged short pleasantries, pleading tiredness to keep from singing. That excuse was easy enough, and the elves left him in peace, drifting out singly and in pairs until there was only a few lights illuminating the path back to his room.  
  
Bilbo crept along quietly, as he often unintentionally did, and though he heard the low murmur of voices once, they were not the rough words of the dwarves, nor the low thrum of Thorin's deep voice.  
  
He reached up and grasped the doorknob to his room, and pulled it open with a grunt. It swung more easily shut behind him, and he sighed quietly, glad to be back in the comfort of his own room. Until he looked over to see the king of Erebor staring at him in shock.  
  
*  
  
"What are you doing here!?" Bilbo hissed, pushing himself off the door and coming further into the room. Not very close to him, Thorin noted with a pang. But close enough Thorin could see the crinkles around his eyes, this time not from laughter. " _Well_?"  
  
Thorin was rarely at a loss for words, but this was _Bilbo_ \- the hobbit was always popping up unexpectedly. He looked around the room. When he had first walked in, he had been puzzled to see it was in disarray. Lord Elrond, he was fairly certain, would not have given him a poorly kept room. (He seemed to like Thorin, which Thorin found mystifying.) Perhaps some other elf had tricked him? Then he had seen burgundy fabric lying across the back of a chair. Something familiar brushed at his memory, and he moved to pick it up. He had it bunched between his fingers - velvet, by the rasp against his callused fingers, and the memory stirred, nearly remembered - when the door had swung open and shut.  
  
"If you had wanted to speak to me - there were plenty of other opportunities! - it's nearly the middle of the night - you would not even _look_ at me." This all came rushing out as Thorin turned back and looked at Bilbo in surprise.  
  
"Well," Thorin began, drawing himself up to speak.  
  
"No!" Bilbo snapped. "I have some things I want to say." He quieted himself. He had been keeping his voice down since he'd come in, though not entirely successfully. Thorin saw the windows were wide open and if the walls were anything like the elves, they were paper-thin and had many pointy, sensitive ears.  
  
Bilbo closed his eyes for a brief moment, and Thorin took a step closer, drawn unconsciously in. Bilbo's eyes snapped open and he planted his feet firmly against the ground. "I am not the same hobbit I was. Then. Now."  
  
Thorin's brows furrowed.  
  
"If you've come here to apologize - "  
  
"Apologize?" Thorin interrupted.  
  
Bilbo stared at him, then his lip curled and he stood up straight, fists curling in what would be a dangerous manner if it was anyone but a hobbit. Then again, it _was_ Bilbo. "I will not go back to Erebor without an apology." He kept his eyes on Thorin, though his fingers danced nervously around themselves. "You said those terrible things! And you never said - asked - I would have overlooked those - "  
  
You shouldn't, Thorin wanted to say.  
  
"I _might_ have overlooked those nasty things, you had just nearly been killed, and the gold - " Bilbo stopped abruptly and looked more closely at Thorin. He shook his head, looking away.  
  
"You wanted to stay?"  
  
Thorin's words surprised them both. Bilbo laced his fingers together in front of him. The indignant look on his face was replaced with one slightly abashed. "I might have not clearly said, but yes. I _did_ indeed say it, though not very directly -" He looked more and more embarrassed, and annoyed. "You know, if a hobbit remarks on the living conditions of a small set of quarters with three windows on the south side…" He threw up his hands and made a face. "Anyone else would have known!"  
  
Thorin's eyebrows rose.  
  
" _You_ didn't say anything at all!"  
  
Thorin idly brushed the velvet fabric in his hands. That, he could not argue with. He could hardly bear to think of the retaking of Erebor without feeling sick. "I was not thinking." Not a lie, but not quite the truth. "I was not in my right mind." He found a brass button, held loosely by thread. It was tarnished.  
  
"The gold," Bilbo said softly after Thorin had lapsed into silence.  
  
"Yes." Thorin shook off the sorrow and the regret, and _made_ himself meet Bilbo's eyes. They were entirely too soft, too sympathetic, when they should be sparking in fury. Which he had the right to be. "It has…diminished. But I do not know if it will ever leave. If it were that simple…"  
  
"Gandalf said you were doing better."  
  
"The old wizard? Yes, he has been keeping a watchful eye on me. Whenever we have dealings with the elves he is close on hand." Those were few. The Mirkwood elves were leery of the dwarves still and even the Battle of the Five Armies hadn't entirely convinced Thorin to extend a hand of friendship. "It was he who arranged this. Lord Elrond has agreed to help us negotiate with Mirkwood."  
  
"Lord Elrond is very hospitable. Gandalf, on the other hand…" Bilbo looked at Thorin with sudden interest. "You say he planned this?"  
  
Thorin nodded. Then Bilbo's words struck him. "It was his idea."  
  
They stared at each other in shared suspicion.  
  
"But he couldn't have known I was here." Bilbo looked doubtful. "I came without him! How could he have guessed I'd already be here?"  
  
Thorin wouldn't put it past the old wizard to - he started, struck by a thought. Quickly he unfurled the fabric, creased by his hand, and it unfolded into a jacket in his hands. A small, worn, hobbit-sized jacket. He began to laugh. It had been so long - it sound rusty, hoarse, and he ended with a cough.  
  
Bilbo looked puzzled. "What is it?" He demanded.  
  
Thorin managed to turn, still smiling, towards the hobbit. "He told me this was my room." To watch Bilbo's expressive face change from confusion to understanding to an eye roll of amused appreciation was a pleasure Thorin was glad to see again, and he could not stop smiling.  
  
He tossed the jacket back towards the chair - it fell short of its mark, and Bilbo looked briefly pained - and moved forward until Bilbo's hesitant smile had a nervous edge. Thorin wondered if he looked mad. He found he did not care - it was beyond his control, you see.  
  
He stopped just short of the hobbit. "I am sorry," he said, putting forth every feeling he held into the words, and waited.  
  
Bilbo's mouth dropped. His face drained of color and he looked ready to faint. Thorin quickly pressed a steadying hand to his shoulder. He studied Thorin's face, eyes traveling quickly as if he could read the lies in the lines of Thorin's face (and perhaps he could). "You are? You _are_ ," he said, astonished.  
  
Thorin could add nothing, but he squeezed carefully. Bilbo's shoulder was narrow, and Thorin was momentarily distracted. Too much elven food and he'd grown thin -  
  
"And that. That. That's it?" Bilbo looked lost.  
  
"I don't know if I can make it up to you. What I said and did - it is unforgivable."  
  
"Hush," Bilbo said, spirit (and color) returning.  
  
"I could barely look at you." Thorin's other hand was on Bilbo's shoulder. He should probably not be rushing Bilbo so, but they had a lot of time to make up for. "And all you ask for is an apology? My dear Bilbo, you could - _should_ \- ask anything of me. Demand it. It is rightfully yours."  
  
"Oh, _hush_ , you old fool."  
  
Old fool? Thorin pressed closer, Bilbo moving forward to meet him. One of them was shaking; he could not be sure it wasn't him. "An old, foolish king, perhaps."  
  
"Perhaps?"  
  
"With a lovely set of quarters on the south side." He could tuck his nose into the tempting crook of that neck, inhale the sweetness and kiss soft skin. He _could_ do that now, and so he did. And could _keep_ doing, if he didn't screw up. Mistakes would be made, he was certain (his temper would see to that), but he had outgrown his pride at last.  
  
Bilbo made a pleasant, humming noise.  
  
"It has three windows."  
  
Bilbo snorted. Thorin felt the pressure of Bilbo's hands around waist, felt a rush of pleasure warm his skin.

"Three."

Bilbo groaned. Thorin was whispering his words against a smooth cheek. "You need to hush now."  
  
"I am yours to command," Thorin murmured.  
  
"And I've been _telling_ you to be - "  
  
And finally Thorin was silent. (As was Bilbo.)

 

 


End file.
